


Every Day Until You Like It

by UniqueChimera



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Prototype: Fragments of Sky Silver, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ayaka is Person A from the OG Strange/Fake Novel, Body Horror, Content Warning: Plague, Content Warning: Police/Police Violence, Content Warning: mild fatphobia, F/F, Gen, HOPEFULLY this is all the characters, Karna is an Archer, ProtoGil, Spoilers, and Manaka is the ghost lol, and the Snowfield War happened in FGO, brought to you by Cadbury's, especially for FGO and Prototype, the war Marisbury won was the Prototype Grail War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniqueChimera/pseuds/UniqueChimera
Summary: Or: how not to evade your sister's ghost.
Relationships: Brynhildr | Lancer/Sigurd | Saber
Kudos: 11





	1. Day 0: Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Sakurafish meme, which is also why the chapter titles are named after fish.  
> Don't know when I will update. Any kind of feedback is appreciated.  
> Hope all of you are saying safe <3

Feel sweat drip down the back of your neck, as the Snowfield sun stares at you like a critical, unrelenting eye. Gaze upon the cloudless sky and the brown, brittle grass, and remember how the river that splits your hometown in two protected you from such dryness even in the heat of summer. Pull over. Check the thaumaturgical circle you inscribed on the inside of your rental car’s trunk. Watch it spark at your touch. Close the trunk, satisfied that the circle is still transmuting air into fire for the engine.

  
Drive until you encounter a gas station. Grip the steering wheel of your car when you hit a bump on the driveway. Park your car in front of the convenience store next door. Savor the air-conditioned breeze that hits your face when you open the door. Wander the aisles and wonder if you can afford a snack or two for the journey ahead.

  
Smile back at the man at the counter. Ask him if he knows of any cheap motels, and laugh politely when he offers to let you spend the night with him. Grab the list of motels when he finally hands it to you, and be careful not to slam your car door when you slide into the driver’s seat. Floor the accelerator on the way out and try your best to ignore the helicopter behind you. It can’t be for you—nobody knows you’re here.

  
“I do,” says Manaka’s ghost.

  
Do not look at the rearview mirror. Do not turn to look at the backseat. Regardless, know that she is sitting there, wearing that white frock and bloodstained blue pinafore that were so pristine in life. Bite back the urge to curse or grind your teeth. It will only make things worse.

  
“Honored sister,” you say, “your presence is a privilege.”

  
Her laugh tinkles like wind chimes. “You mustn’t lie, Ayaka.”

  
Take a moment to be grateful that she’s come to you while driving. She died before she was old enough to learn, so there is little chance of her hijacking your body now.

  
“Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

  
“Of course I forgive you, dear sister.”

  
Swallow the bile that statement produces. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

  
"I wanted to see how your escape efforts were coming along."

  
"I would be honored to hear your thoughts."

  
"I have touched the Root. All the world's knowledge, past and present, is mine."

  
Nod. Do not speak. Your voice will betray you if you do.

  
Feel the shift in the air when she smiles. “You will never banish me, my dear.”

  
Listen for a sound to mark her departure, even though experience has taught you she is as silent when she leaves as when she enters. Watch the sun set as you drive, igniting the sky in a blaze of purple and fuschia. Park in the motel lot as twilight starts to set in. Pay for a week in a room with a twin bed, and nod along when the receptionist tells you about the no smoking rule and the complimentary breakfast.

  
Close the motel room door behind you. Check your wallet. There's just enough for your stay here. Pull pleated skirts and creased bras out of your backpack. Grab the travel sized shampoo you took from the last motel and take a shower. Savor the feeling of hot water. Examine the Command Seals that have appeared on your body: curling blood red sigils adorning the backs of your hands, your shoulders, your spine. They are proof that you are a participant in the upcoming Holy Grail War. Each Seal will give you the power to issue one order your Servant must obey absolutely. Wonder, once again, why five have appeared instead of the usual three, and why they are spread across your body instead of clustered on the back of your right hand. Come to your usual conclusion: those idiot Americans must have made a mistake.

  
Get dressed and unzip the front pocket of your backpack. Remove your chalk and a rumpled sheet. Lay the sheet flat on the floor of your room. Draw a standard thaumaturgical circle - the symbols for Earth, Water, Fire, Air at the cardinal directions, the symbol for Ether and the soul in the center. Activate the second nervous system that sleeps in the bodies of all magi. Feel the ley line running under Snowfield answer your call. Shiver at its strength. Let yourself hope that winning this War will be enough to banish Manaka.

  
Chant the Incantation. Allow the words to fill your mind and drown out the wind that is starting to whip around the circle.

  
“Let it be declared now. Your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword. If you would submit to this will and this truth, an oath shall be sworn here. I shall attain all the virtues of Heaven, and dominion over all the evils of Hell. Attend to the great words of power, protector of the holy balance!”

  
Shut your eyes against the blinding flash. Stagger to your feet when the wind begins to fade. You will not meet this Servant on your knees.

  
Blink when you see not one Servant, but five. Note that they all look like men, but know in your bones that they are not human. Try not to stare at the one holding a silver spear, which glitters in the low light of the motel room.

  
Grimace when your knees give way. See the Servant with the spear lunge to catch you, just before darkness claims you.

* * *

“-is unwise, Lancer.”

  
“I don’t care.”

  
Sit up. Rub your eyes to dispel your grogginess. Two of the Servants are arguing in front of you. One is that spear wielder, whose legs are obscured by flowing blue fabric. The other is swathed in black cloth that rustles when he moves. He is holding a staff with snakes twined around it, who hiss and spit when he moves. The one in gold armor is sprawled on the room’s sole chair, his brass earring glinting. He is smirking at the masked redhead leaning against the door, whose head is tilted towards the ceiling. The last Servant is sitting cross-legged on the floor. His tattoos ripple as he stretches his arms.

  
The spear wielder glances at you. His smile transforms his face. “You’re awake!”

  
Nod. Do not return his smile. Ask him: “Do you remember me?”

  
Watch him flinch.

  
“Do you?”

  
“I...yes.”

  
“You remember something from a past War?” The Servant in gold armor asks. He lowers his head so that he can smirk at the Servant with the spear instead of the masked Servant. “Are you defective?”  
The masked Servant snorts. Lancer shrugs.

  
“It does not matter,” The black-robed Servant says. His gloves—also black—glisten. “Time is of the essence. Master, you need to unsummon us.”

  
What?

  
“This is a strange War. Each of us can only be summoned for six hours total.”

  
Say nothing. Attempt to adjust for this in your plans—Servants are meant to remain at their Master’s side for the entire duration of the war. Can you re-summon two at a time? What happens if you use a Seal?

  
“You have questions,” the masked Servant says. His voice is low and rough. “Ask.”

  
“How do I unsummon and re-summon you?”

  
“Stating our True Name and the phrase ‘return to the Throne’ should suffice for unsummoning,” the black-robed Servant says. He leans his staff against the wall. The snakes hiss at the tattooed Servant, who wrinkles his nose and backs away from them.

  
“To re-summon us...hm.” The black-robed Servant stares at the snakes on his staff, which are currently in a glaring contest with the tattooed Servant. “You will need our True Name, followed by the second sentence of the Incantation.”

  
Nod and thank him. Take a deep breath.

  
“Arthur Pendragon, return to the throne.”

  
The spear-wielding Servant blinks. His silver armor and blue tunic glimmers as he vanishes in a cloud of golden light.

  
“Well,” the masked Servant says, “that was quick.”

  
Tell them that Arthur Pendragon is righteous to a fault, and that such a temperament is ill-suited to the tactics a Grail War requires. It’s true, but not the truth. You cannot risk Manaka seeing him.  
Ask them for their Classes and True Names. The Servant in gold armor grins. Calling it armor might be an exaggeration—while his legs and waist are covered, his upper body is bare except for a half-length gold cape and several golden necklaces. Two golden swords that are curved just above the hilt are strapped to his back.

  
"Rejoice, Master!”he says. “You have been blessed with Gilgamesh, King of Heroes--"

  
"Your class?"

  
Gilgamesh blinks. "I am an Archer."

  
"Return to the Throne, Gilgamesh."

  
The black-robed Servant stares at the golden light that is left in Gilgamesh's wake. His eyes—the only uncovered part of his body—are the green of a fading bruise. "You do not wish to know our Noble Phantasms?" he asks.

  
Shake your head. The more you know, the more Manaka can find out if she decides to possess you.  
"Well," he says. "I will not question your judgment. A word of advice, Master - make sure you eat regularly. Your collapse earlier appears to have been exacerbated by inadequate nutritional intake."

Blink. Nod. Watch him nod in return.

  
"Very well. I am Asclepius, a Caster. Call on me if you require medical care."

  
Nod and release him. Look to the remaining two Servants.

  
“Guess I’ll go next,” the tattooed Servant says. With a flick of his head, a lock of his waist-length black hair falls off his shoulder to cascade down his tattooed back. “I’m Yan Qing, Assassin class! People say I’m a lady killer as long as I keep my mouth—”

  
Unsummon him.

  
“Interesting,” the masked Servant says. “I didn’t think I’d be going last.” He presses a gloved hand to his mask and removes it. The paleness of his skin makes his red hair look lurid by contrast.

  
“I am Perseus, summoned in the Rider Class. Use me as you see fit.”

  
Nod. Begin the incantation to unsummon him.

  
“Wait.”

  
Close your mouth.

  
“Something is wrong with this War, Master. We can all feel it. This time limit poses problems, but do not hesitate to summon us if you are in danger.”

  
Nod again. Ask him how long you were unconscious.

  
Watch him grimace. “An hour and a half.”

  
That leaves four and a half hours with each Servant. Nod and unsummon him. When the last flecks of golden light have faded, fall onto the bed. Listen to your stomach grumble. Remember that you have not eaten since breakfast. Sit up and grab the wad of bills at the bottom of your backpack's front pocket. Check that there is enough to pay for meals for two weeks, and hope that this War will not last much longer.

  
Drive into Snowfield proper. At a red light, try to glimpse the constellations overhead. Squint at the glare from neon signs as a gentle breeze rustles dying grass.

  
Park in a strip mall. Tomorrow you will get groceries, but for tonight takeout is acceptable. Enter a Chinese restaurant. Savor the smell of frying oil. Gaze at the backlit menu. Pick the cheapest thing on it that will yield leftovers - one quart of egg drop soup. Hand the cashier a folded 5 dollar bill. Do not upgrade your meal to a combo. Pull out a squeaky black chair and sit. Lean your elbows against the faded plastic table. Wait.

  
“You’re early.”

  
Swivel your head to see who spoke. Look up at the woman standing in front of you. Note her wrinkled suit and the bruised skin under her eyes. She keeps glancing at the man beside her, whose fluffy white hair is barely contained by the hood of his sweatshirt.

  
Tine Chelc. An American special agent, and one of the magi responsible for this sham of a Holy Grail War. Curse whatever twist of fate has brought you into her orbit so soon. You came here early specifically to spend some time in Snowfield without the other Masters being aware of your presence.

Meet her eyes. Tell her you couldn't wait to sleep on a real bed. Smile when she laughs.

  
"I can understand that," she says.

  
Ask her how she is. Watch her shrug in response.

  
"Could be better," she says.

  
She gestures to the seats across from you. "Mind if we join you?"

  
Shrug. Nod. She pulls a chair out with a loud scrape. The white-haired man grasps another chair and lifts it with a focus you tend to reserve for complex magecraft.

  
Hold your hand out to him. Meet his perplexed stare. Smile. Introduce yourself.

  
Watch him smile uneasily in return.

  
Tine leans over and whispers something in his ear. He blinks and nods. With that smile still fixed on his face, he reaches out and takes your hand.

  
Do not wince at the strength of his grip. Maintain your smile. Introduce yourself.

  
“It is nice to meet you, Miss Sajyou,” he says. His smile warms, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My name is—”

  
Tine elbows him.

  
“My apologies,” he says. He looks sheepish. “Please call me Archer.”

  
A Servant.  
He glances at

the back of your hand, where a Command Seal is clearly visible.

  
“Ah,” he says. His red eyes meet yours. “You are a Master in this war.”

  
Nod. Take another look at him. His coloring suggests albinism, but you cannot remember any albino heroes from myth or legend. The hood has slipped from his head a bit, revealing something large and golden glinting under his ear.

  
Interesting.

  
Ask Tine how she likes being back home. Listen politely as she launches into a monologue about the joys of Snowfield. Glance at the Archer, who is watching Tine with a rapt expression on his face.  
She is midway through her monologue when your egg wonton soup is ready. Say goodbye to her and Archer. Grab your takeout. Leave. Let the coolness of the night air soothe you as you head to your car.

  
Your mouth opens of its own accord. “Looks tasty!” it says.

  
Attempt to clap your hand over your mouth. It remains by your side.

  
_Honored sister_ , you think, _kindly wait until we are in the car._

  
Manaka forces your lips into a grin. “But it smells so good!”

  
Feel your legs jerk as Manaka asserts control over them. Hope that she doesn’t spill the soup. High-level spells from long-dead schools of magecraft are child’s play for her, but moving legs far longer than hers were when she died is a trial.

  
Watch passersby stare at you out of the corner of your eye. With the way Manaka is swaying and shambling, you must look drunk to them.

  
Manaka lurches into your car. Your elbow hits the steering wheel as she falls onto the driver’s seat. Soup sloshes onto your lap and the car’s carpet as she lifts the container with wobbling hands.

  
Cringe internally when you feel her stick your hand into the paper bag that had once housed the soup. Know from experience that she is trying to find the plastic spoon, and that her fine motor skills are almost as bad as her leg movements.

  
“They sell food in such big portions in this country,” Manaka says. Hearing her speak with your voice is still jarring, even after all these years. “It’s no wonder they’re all fat.”

  
Death has mellowed Manaka. When she was eight and you were five, she told your father he was a pathetic magus at the breakfast table.

  
She manages to form a fist around the spoon and napkin at the bottom of the bag, but when she lifts them she misjudges your strength. Your hand punches through the paper bag. Manaka tilts her head to stare at it, then starts to laugh. Even in your body, her giggles sound delicate.

  
She wrenches your arm, paper bag still impaled on it, and plunges the spoon into the soup. More liquid spills as she lifts the spoon and the now-dripping napkin and dips them into your mouth.  
She closes your eyes. The sudden darkness is disorienting.

  
"Mmmmm," she says. "I had forgotten what tasting was like."

  
_I am glad the soup is to your liking, honored sister._

  
“It is disgusting,” she says. “Far too salty.” She looks into the rearview mirror. Stare at the smile she has put on your face. Try to remember the last time you looked that happy and fall short.

  
“Ayaka, I have been without food for so long that I would weep tears of joy at the taste of sewage.” When she looks into the mirror like this, it feels as if she is making eye contact with you.

  
“When I was alive my connection to the Root was unimpeded,” she says. “Every experience since the beginning of time was available to me. If I wished, I could know how grass tasted to a cow so intimately it was as if I had become a cow, for those scant seconds.” Her smile disappears. “I could even drive, if I so chose, as skillfully as a Formula 1 racer.”

  
She looks away from the mirror and tosses another spoonful of soup into her mouth.

  
“Now I am dead, thanks to you.”

  
Honored sister, it was not my intent—

  
"You poisoned my Servant against me."

  
I was a child, honored sister. I did not—

  
"Of course you knew, Ayaka. You and your wicked, honeyed words. My Arthur was so strong, so steadfast." She looks back up at the rearview mirror. She is still smiling with your face, but her grin is lopsided, her eyes feverish. "You broke him, Ayaka. You made him believe his dream was impossible."

  
You did no such thing. Remember that night—how chilly it was in your mother’s garden, how the irises and morning glory had seemed gilded by moonlight. Remember the itch of your school uniform, and how much taller Arthur had seemed at the time, his sword—he had been summoned as a Saber—hanging at his side. He had seemed troubled even before you spoke to him. You had talked about the garden, nothing more.

  
Try to convey this to Manaka. _Honored sister, there was nothing—_

  
"Save me your excuses. He would never have killed me if you had kept your mouth shut.”

  
Had Arthur not killed her, the city would have been destroyed. You doubt a conversation with a child would have changed things.

  
“I should have sacrificed you when I had the chance." Manaka looks up at the lint-gray ceiling of the car and shivers. "Do you remember the Beast, Ayaka?”

  
How could you forget? It had oozed out of the Grail at Manaka’s call, forming a bear's paws and a lion’s mane out of bubbling black mud. Worst of all was the unholy glee on Manaka’s face as she fed screaming children to it, one by one. You had clung to the daughter of Caster’s Master in a corner, frozen by the knowledge that nobody was coming to save you. Arthur had been motionless by Manaka’s side, bound by a Command Spell to obey her. Had Caster and his Master not appeared and released Arthur from Manaka’s command, the Beast would have swallowed your hometown whole.

Manaka smiles. “How beautiful it would have been, if I had become one with the Beast.” The urge to shudder ripples through you, even though you have no control over your body.

  
"Soon," Manaka says. She shivers again. If you didn't know better, you would ask if she was cold. "You must thank these Americans for me, Ayaka."

  
They say they have removed the Beast from the Grail, honored sister.

  
"We both know that's nonsense." She glances at the soup, which is still resting in her lap. "It's cold now," she says. "That will not do." She flicks your wrist, and it goes from lukewarm to scalding.  
"That's better," Manaka says. She snaps your fingers. The spoon levitates and dips into the soup. Spare a moment to wonder why she didn't do this in the first place.

  
"I like the novelty, Ayaka.”

  
She slurps another spoonful of soup.

  
“Have you met any other Masters yet?”

  
Picture Tine and her Archer in your mind’s eye.

  
“Hmmm.” Manaka strokes your chin. “This is one of those Americans, yes?”

  
By all accounts, you are the only Master who is not one of ‘those Americans.’

  
“No need to be cheeky, little sister.” Feel her peering at the pair of them. “He’s an Archer?”

  
_Yes_.

  
“I should enjoy my time with you while it lasts, then.” She sets the soup container on top of the seat next to her. “You’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

  
_What do you mean, honored sister?_

  
No response. Attempt to wiggle your fingers. Succeed.

  
She’s gone.

  
Do your best to mop up the spilled soup with some McDonald’s napkins you stuff into the glove compartment for emergencies. Drive back to the motel. Microwave the remaining soup. Settle into the motel room’s chair. Switch the TV on. Watch the evening news. Note of the location of the explosion this afternoon—some Masters must have started fighting before the official start of the war. Change into your pajamas and burrow into the mattress. Get as much sleep as you can—you’ll need it for the beginning of the War tomorrow.


	2. Day 1: Salmon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make new acquaintances, encounter old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Brynhildr and Sigurd who appear in this story are basically OCs.

Wake to a text from Tine: _lunch meeting at noon, bring Servant._ Reply and thank her. Squint at the address provided. Put it into the Maps app on your phone. It’s a steakhouse walking distance from your hotel—you may have passed it on your way to the Chinese place. 

Mull over which Servant to summon while you brush your teeth. Someone with an obscure legend would be good, which rules Lancer, Archer and Rider out. It would be all too easy for other Masters to guess their identity and determine their weak spots. Consider your remaining options. Grab the pair of stockings with the least runs and roll them on. Pull a t-shirt over your head and put on your least offensive skirt. Check your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Put your shoes on and leave the room, backpack in hand.

There’s two hours before the meeting. Head to Walmart first. Make a beeline to the men’s clothing section. Grab a couple extra large hoodies and sweatpants. Better to hide your Servants in oversized clothes than get something they can’t move around in. Head to the ethnic foods aisle next. For some reason, half the Walmarts in this country keep the black bean cans here. Toss a couple into your cart. Peruse the ramen selection at the end of the aisle. Get several large packs. Grab some Starbursts on your way out. Pay at the self checkout kiosk.

Head back to your motel room. Put everything away, but leave hoodies and sweatpants on the bed. Change into a wine red cardigan. Check the time - 30 minutes left. Close your eyes. Activate your circuits.

"Yan Qing, your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword."

He appears the same way he left, in a cloud of shimmering golden motes. "Hey, Master!" he says, grinning when he sees you." 

“Please call me Ayaka.”

"Oh sure! No problem."

Hand him a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Ask him to put them on. He complies, but frowns at the sweatpants, whose waistband is so loose it threatens to sag to his mid-thigh.

"Use the elastic."

"The what?" He frowns at them some more. "Oh!" He grabs the elastic and tightens the waistband.

"Tighten the neck of your hoodie, too."

He fumbles for the hoodie's ties. After pulling on them he looks up at you for approval.&

“More, please. As much as you can.”

By the time he’s done, his face is barely visible. Perfect. Grab your phone and wallet and head to the door, Yan Qing at your heels.

“What’s going on, Master?” 

Show him the text. “We have to meet the other Masters.”

“Oh, okay.” He tugs at his hoodie. “Why did you make me wear this stuff?”

“The less they know about you, the better.”

Yan Qing stares at her. “Ayaka, you know I’m an Assassin, right? I have Presence Concealment—say the word and they won’t see me at all.”

“That will not work. They need to be able to see that you are present.”

“Hm.” Yan Qing tilts his head. “I guess you have a point.”

Unlock the car. Watch Yan Qing click his seatbelt into place. When he adjusts the tightness of the waist strap, the hoodie pools around it.

“What’re you going to wish for?” he asks.

Shrug.

“Come on, Ayaka.”

How do you explain this to him? Tell him you want your sister dead? Or banished?

“I want to use the Grail to exorcise a ghost,” you tell him.

For some reason, this makes Yan Qing perk up. “Interesting! What kind of ghost?”

“A wraith, I think.” Turn into the parking lot. “Or a Guardian Spirit.”

“Hmm!” Yan Qing strokes his chin. “What’s it bound to?”

“Me.”

He peers at you. It is almost as if he is trying to find whatever connects Manaka to you.

Change the subject. “What would you wish for, Yan Qing?” 

He bares his teeth. “I’d wish for a chance to kill the bastards who wronged me.”

Park near the steakhouse. “How did they wrong you?”

“They killed my master.”

Digest this information as you both walk to the steakhouse entrance. Tine is waiting for you inside.

“We’re in the back,” she says. Follow her into a room with a long table, where several people are already seated. The only one you recognize—Faldeus Dioland, the other architect of this War—gets up and shakes your hand.

“Nice to meet you in person, Ayaka,” he says.

Smile and agree. Remember how surprised you were when he emailed you for the first time a year and a half ago. Magi tend to eschew modern technology, especially when they hail from prominent families like the Diolands. Since then, you have spoken with him and Tine over phone and video calls. Of the two, you prefer Tine—something about Faldeus has never sat right with you. 

Assess the texture of his skin while you shake his hand. It feels real enough. Perhaps he is here in person, instead of sending one of the lifelike puppets his family is so well known for.

“Please,” he says. “Take a seat.” He gestures to the table, where a man with several missing teeth is laughing at a scowling woman whose white braid brushes the floor. A woman in a powder blue suit is watching the two of them with a smile on her face. Next to them, a man in a military uniform checks his phone while a man with an eyepatch and a cross around his neck whispers something in his ear. At one end of the table a woman in a gold-embroidered burqa looks out the window. 

Ask Yan Qing where he wants to sit. He shrugs and points to the seats by the woman in the blue suit. Sit next to her and help yourself to some water. Pour Yan Qing a cup. 

The woman turns to face you. Behind her glasses, her eyes are a searing turquoise. “You must be Ayaka,” she says. 

Nod and take her hand. Her grip is almost strong enough to bruise. Glance at the red sword hanging from her hip. It seems to be glowing faintly—it must be magical. She must be a Saber-class Servant. 

“Sigurd Hjordisdottir,” she says. “Nice to meet you.” 

Hide your surprise. It is unusual for a Servant to reveal their True Name so readily. 

Sigurd leans back in her chair and smiles at the white-haired woman. “Darling,” she says, “won’t you introduce yourself?”

The white-haired woman glares at her. “Lancer,” she says, nodding at you.

“Thank you, babe,” Sigurd says. She pulls a cream rectangle out of her pocket and hands it to you. “My card.”

Take it. Under her name, the words ‘Andvaranaut Hotel and Casino, CEO’ are embossed on it in red script.

Sigurd winks at you. “If you’re ever in Vegas, you must look me up.”

Nod. Sit down. Sip your water. Face Yan Qing, who has struck up a conversation with the woman in the burqa. 

“...love this plastic stuff,” Yan Qing is saying. He taps his glass, which is now half full. “All the things humans come up with are so cool!”

The woman in the burqa nods. You can’t see her expression, but she seems amused.

Yan Qing starts to speak again, but notices that you have returned from your conversation. “Oh, hey Ayaka!” he says.

Nod. Ask him what he’s been talking about.

“Oh, we’re just talking about all the things we like about this place!” He grins. “She likes the desert flowers, and I like plastic!”

Smile in spite of yourself. Introduce yourself to the woman in the burqa.

She inclines her head. “I have forsaken my name,” she says, “but I am honored to make your acquaintance. Peace be upon you.”

Ask her what she likes about the flowers. Like everything else in Snowfield, you find them too sparse, too dry.

“They blossom in spite of hardship,” she says. “I find them inspiring.”

Begin to ask her another question, but find yourself interrupted by the creak of the door opening. Three people spill into the room. The first is a young man whose blonde hair has been braided down his back. His slacks and button-down are a searing white, but are thankfully obscured by the embroidered cobalt cloak that rests on his shoulders. The next person towers over him, and has to lower his head to enter the room. The dark cloth draped over his head brushes his shins as he walks, and his wine-red skin is marred by crisscrossing white scars. The last person runs in and almost bumps into the tall man. Wisps of white hair have escaped from the braid running down the left side of her face. When she sees you, she stiffens. Despite yourself, you do the same.

“You,” she hisses. She walks towards you, her fists white-knuckled. The blonde man shoots her an annoyed glare.

She hasn’t changed a bit. “Hello, Olga.”

“Don’t hello me, you idiot!” Olga says. “Why the hell are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I can take care of myself. You, on the other hand—” she glances at the back of your hand, where one of the Command Seals is visible.

She grabs your hand.

“Why didn’t you give up your Seals? Do you have a death wish?”

Shake your head.

Olga’s eyes narrow. “Are you trying to win?”

Nod.

Olga makes a noise halfway between a shriek and a growl. The blonde man clears his throat. Olga drops your hand.

“Do you know these people, Ayaka?” Faldeus asks.

“I know her, but the other two...”

“I am Kirschtaria Wodime,” the blonde man says. “Master of Avenger, who has taken the place of Berserker in this War.” He removes a white glove to reveal three blood red Command Seals in the shape of a sun on the back of his hand.

“Whose corpse did you take those Command Seals from?” Tine asks. “Haruri Borzak’s or the Kuruokas’?”

“Miss Borzak fought well,” Kirschtaria says. “She was a credit to her family.”

The room went quiet at that.

“Well.” Faldeus said, “you may as well take a seat, Mr. Wodime, Avenger, Miss…?”

“Animusphere,” Olga said. “Olga Marie Animusphere.”

“Miss Animusphere. Lunch will be arriving shortly.”

Olga throws herself into the chair across from yours. “Explain.”

“Not here.”

Olga makes a strangled noise. 

“Calm down, miss,” Yan Qing says. “That’s not good for your blood pressure.”

Olga glares at him. “Who the hell are you?”

Despite the hoodie obscuring his face, you can still see the brightness of his grin. “Ayaka’s Servant, Skillful Star, at your service!”

“And what’s your class, Mister Skillful Star?”

Somehow, Yan Qing’s grin gets even brighter. “None of your business!”

“Whatever.” Olga leans across the table. Her expression is solemn. “You need to get out of here.”


	3. Day 1: Axolotl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Cadbury's Fruit and Nut plus new and familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is starting for me so update speed will go down quite a bit.  
> Please note that the plague content warning AND the police content warning apply to this chapter. There is also graphic violence in this chapter - I will update warnings when I figure out how to. Info on where this content is can be found in the end notes.

Sigurd chuckles. “They haven’t even served lunch yet, darling. Stick around.”

Your stomach grumbles. Olga’s eyes narrow at the sound.

“When was the last time you ate, Ayaka?”

Shrug. Recall last night’s soup, and feel your stomach growl again.

Olga reaches into her jacket and pulls out a purple rectangle. She throws it at you. Catch it. It’s a Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut chocolate bar.

“How many of these did you pack, Olga?”

“Why do you care? Eat it.”

Take a bite. Olga has always liked chocolate more than you, but you relish the way it slides down your throat anyways.

“Thank you.” 

She shrugs. “Wasn’t going to eat it anyway.”

“You are both fools,” Lancer says, “to rely on sweets in wartime.

Olga favors her with an angelic smile, which in your experience precedes shouting and significant property damage.

Change the subject. “How is D-the Doctor?

Olga turns back to you like a compass needle moving north. Mission accomplished. “Still with Doctors Without Borders. I think he’s in Yemen now.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?

“You can ask him yourself.”

Shake your head. He can’t know you’re here.

“Hmph.” Olga looks away. “The food is here.”

A plate of steak, asparagus and mashed potatoes appears in front of you. The mashed potatoes are buttery and soft, the asparagus basted with garlic. 

“How is your father?” 

“Fine.” Olga takes a bite of the steak and scowls. “This is vile.”

“Does he know about— “

“Of course he knows about this stupid War. That’s why we’re here.” 

“What do you mean?”

She sighs. “I wanted to dismantle the whole thing, but other people—” she looks at Wodime, who appears to be eating out of politeness if not enthusiasm. “Other people thought this would be a good opportunity to gather data on Master-Servant compatibility.”

“Why does Lord Animusphere want data on Master-Servant compatibility?”

Olga stares at her plate.

“Well?”

She cuts a piece of asparagus in half. “I’ll tell you when you tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Fine.” Try the steak. It’s delicious, if over seasoned. 

“Ooh! Can I try?”

Oh no. 

Manaka shimmies into the space between your seat and Yan Qing’s. She peers at your plate with a hunger that makes you shiver.

“It’s rude to take food from other people, little lady,” Yan Qing says. Oh, God. Can he see her? “Why don’t I ask for a plate just for you?”

Manaka opens her mouth to reply, but a needle of pulsing shadow hits her in the chest and knocks her onto the floor. It’s joined by a second needle, then a third. Manaka starts laughing.

“Shut up!” Olga says. She’s even paler than usual. Her finger shakes as she fires another needle from its tip.

Grab her hand. “Olga, stop!”

Her eyes are wild. “What the hell is this, Ayaka?”

“I think we should be the ones asking that,” Sigurd says. “What on Earth are you shooting at, dear?”

Answer both questions at once. “A ghost. I don’t—” look at Olga, then at Yan Qing—”I thought I was the only one who could see her.

Sigurd looks around the room. “Can anyone else see this mysterious ghost?”

“Yes,” says Kirschtaria Wodime. His Servant nods.

“Curious,” Manaka says. “I can understand why Ayaka’s Servant could see me—the Master-Servant bond is a powerful thing. How—oh.” She grins at Olga. “You’re one of those girls, aren’t you? My sacrificial lambs.” Her tinkling laugh fills the room. 

“Ayaka, let me go,” Olga says, gritting her teeth. “Let me send her back to hell.” 

“A moment, Olga,” Kirschtaria says. He walks over to Manaka and kneels so he’s eye level with her. “What is your name?”

She smiles at him. “Manaka Sajyou.”

“Ah.” He looks up at you. “You’re that Archisorte girl.”

Manage a jerky nod. It’s been a while since you’ve heard your mother’s name.

“When did she first appear to you?”

“A year ago.” 

“Hmm.” He turns back to Manaka. “It seems you were more successful than we had anticipated.” He stands up. Manaka frowns at him. She starts to say something, but the door opens and a young man in a torn button-down and stained khakis shambles into the room.

“This—” he coughs, “this is the meeting for the Holy Grail War, yes?”

“You don’t look like a Kuruoka,” the man with missing teeth says.

“I am not.” The man’s voice has a strange bubbling quality. “I am here on Miss Kuruoka’s behalf.”

“Miss?” Faldeus frowns. “The Kuruokas are a married couple.”

“Ah, yes.” The man coughs again, spraying flecks of blood and spittle. “Happily, the Kuruokas are deceased. I am here on behalf of their daughter.”

“Deceased?” the man in the military uniform says.

“Happily?” the man missing teeth says.

“I am this war’s Rider,” the coughing man says, ignoring both of them. He staggers to the table and takes the seat next to Lancer. Now that he’s closer, you can see that his skin is peppered with oozing sores. Lancer grimaces and scoots away from him.

“I have no—” he coughs again, “no interest in your petty squabbles. I am here to deliver a message.”

“And what is that message?” Kirschtaria asks.

“Do not lay a finger on my Master. She is—” he sneezes, sending globules of mucus flying across the table. “She is a child, who did not enter of her own volition.”

Sigurd smiles and leans towards him, earning her a glare from Lancer. “And how exactly do you plan on stopping us, darling? You don’t exactly cut a threatening figure.”

“Sigurd!” Lancer hisses. “We do not—”

Sigurd holds up her right hand. While two of her Command Seals are clearly visible, one of them appears to have been wiped away. “We?”

Lancer closes her mouth and scowls at her.

Rider starts to laugh, expelling more phlegm and blood. “It is unwise to judge a Servant when you do not know their True Name.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am he who is summoned by the fourth seal, an instrument of the wrath of the lamb. At the end of days a fourth of the world shall be mine to murder. You may know me as the Pale Rider, or Pestilence, for I am the father of all the world’s sickness.”

With that, the man coughs twice more, spraying blood-flecked mucus across the table, and collapses.

For a moment the room is silent. Then the man in the military uniform raises a gloved hand to his mouth and coughs into it. The man with missing teeth gives him a concerned glance as mucus starts to dribble from the man with the eyepatch’s nose. One by one, each of the Masters follows suit. You can feel your own cough stirring in your chest, coupled with the faint taste of sickness at the back of your throat.

_ I am within you now. _

Rider’s voice has a slimy quality, like phlegm sliding down the back of your throat. Shudder at the sound of a voice in your head that is not Manaka's. 

_ You live only because I wish it. Harm so much as a hair on my Master’s head and I will not be so merciful. _

The voice leaves you, but the cough and the mucus making a bid to escape your nose remains. Glance behind you. It seems that Manaka has left you as well.

“Well,” Faldeus says. “That changes things.”

The man missing teeth snorts. “You don’t say?”

Faldeus ignores him. “As it stands, we cannot proceed. If anyone has ideas for a potential plan B, now is the time.”

“Ayaka,” Yan Qing whispers loudly, “what’s he talking about?”

Hold a finger to your lips. He nods and settles back in his seat.

Olga’s eyes follow the movement of your hand. She coughs wetly and scowls. “You didn’t—”

Shake your head. Now is not the time.

“I say we dispense with this farce,” the man in the military uniform says. He pulls a walkie talkie from his belt and switches it on. “Clan Catalin, you are a go.”

The door to the conference room shatters. Thirty people in black tactical gear swarm the room. While they all appear to have guns strapped to their hips, each of them carries a colorful weapon that wouldn’t look out of place at a Renaissance Fair.

Yan Qing’s hand closes around your wrist. The sounds of the people in tactical gear moving become muffled. Olga’s face appears blurry, as if you are looking at a watercolor painting of her.

“Come,” Yan Qing says. He pulls you to the remains of the door. The two of you slip out of it, the people in tactical gear oblivious to your movements.

“Presence Concealment?”

He nods. You walk past more people in tactical gear, though these people are not carrying exotic weapons. 

Yan Qing pushes the door to the steakhouse open with his elbow. Walk with him to your car. Do not run—you do not want to attract attention. Listen to the muffled shouting and banging coming from the steakhouse. Spare a thought for Olga, who is probably caught in whatever chaos has ensued. Set it aside. She has always been better at combat magic than you. If you want to survive this war, you cannot worry about her now.

Unlock the door. Slide into the driver’s seat. Feel your ears pop when Assassin releases his Presence Concealment. Drive back to the motel. Feel the urge to cough again, and turn your mouth into your shoulder.

“You okay?” Yan Qing asks.

Nod.

“That’s good.” He turns his head to look out the back window. “You should probably get Asclepius to treat you, though.”

Nod to show him you agree.

“You should ask him about the ghost, too. He’s the Caster, after all.”

Pull into the motel parking lot. “I wouldn’t want to burden him.”

“We’re your Servants, Ayaka. You should be burdening us.”

Park and get out of the car. Yan Qing watches you for a moment, then follows suit.

As you walk to the motel’s entrance, something catches the corner of your eye. Turn to see what it is, and come face to face with Sigurd and Lancer. Lancer’s armor, her spear and Sigurd’s sword all gleam in the afternoon sun. Sigurd’s hair is streaked with blood, and a chunk of something that looks suspiciously like intestines dangles from one of the spikes of Lancer’s armor.

“So this is where you’re staying?” Sigurd looks up at the motel. “You should have called, darling. I would have put you up in one of my hotel’s vacant rooms, free of charge.”

Lancer snorts. “She is not that stupid.”

“My dear, all young people are stupid. Some of them just don’t know it yet.” She winks at Yan Qing. “Hey, kiddo, what rank is your Presence Concealment? B? B-?”

“C.” Yan Qing pulls his hoodie over his head. The flower tattoos covering his arms and abdomen are so vivid it looks as if camellias and chrysanthemums have been pressed onto his skin. “Why do you ask?”

Sigurd taps her glasses. “If it’s B rank or lower, I can see through it. Thanks for the free show, by the way, but I’m not interested in men.”

“It’s not a show,” Yan Qing says. He’s taking off his sweatpants now, revealing silky harem pants held in place by a belt shaped like a primrose. “I won’t be able to fight you like this.”

“Who said anything about fighting? Perhaps we can resolve things peacefully.” She twirls her sword. “Give up your seals and we’ll let you live. Fair trade, no?”

Shake your head.

“Pity.” 

Crimson bleeds into Sigurd’s glacier-blue irises. Stare at her eyes, at her too-sharp teeth. Remember that these are the classic characteristics of Dead Apostles, that species of vampire whose birth was tainted by magic. Know in your bones that you are not strong enough to stand against her.

"Fighting during the day is forbidden," you say. With any luck, this will keep her occupied for a few minutes.

She laughs. "Didn't stop Caster and his goons." She glances meaningfully at the guts still impaled on Lancer's spear. "Don't see why it should stop us." 

Another cough is bubbling within you. Clench your teeth around it, but fail to suppress it. Sigurd's smile turns wolfish at the sound.

"One perk of being a vampire, darling—diseases just don't pack the punch they used to."

She lifts her sword above her head and charges. Lancer hefts her spear and does the same. Yan Qing steps in front of you, crouching in what you assume is a fighting stance.

Offer a silent prayer to a God you no longer believe in. speak as softly and quickly as possible so that neither Sigurd nor Lancer can hear you. "Gilgamesh, your flesh shall serve under me and my fate shall be under your sword."

A sudden bout of nausea makes your knees wobble. The ground sways under your feet. That familiar cloud of gold light has appeared beside you, and when it dissipates Gilgamesh is standing next to you, his gold half-cape glittering in the sun. 

“Greetings, Master!” He spares a disdained glance for Lancer, who looks furious, and Sigurd, who has stopped smiling for the first time since you’ve met her.

“Are these mongrels bothering you?” he asks. Ruby-studded bracelets jangle on his wrist as he raises his right hand. A tattoo twined around his forearm glows white.

“Let the gate of the king’s treasury be opened! Key of the King’s Collection, Bab-Ilu!”

The air around him ripples and takes on a golden sheen. A smorgasbord of weapons emerges from it, in every shape and style. He lowers his hand so that it faces Lancer and Sigurd, and with a whistling noise the weapons fly towards them. Lancer and Sigurd manage to block many of them, their sword and spear whirling, but you can see a spear graze Lancer’s cheek and a curved sword slice Sigurd’s side open. She falls to the ground with a shout, her manicured hand pressed to her abdomen to keep her intestines from spilling out.

Lancer runs to her and picks her up with one hand. She leans her spear against her shoulder and mutters something under her breath.

“I’ll be fine, love,” Sigurd says. She removes her hand from her side, and you can see that her skin has knitted itself back together. “See?”

Lancer traces Sigurd’s exposed skin with a reverent finger. Sigurd smiles. “Being an abomination isn’t all bad, huh?”

Lancer snorts. Gilgamesh decides that this is an excellent moment to fire a golden spike-tipped chain at them. It wraps around the two of them, forcing Lancer to her knees as she cradles Sigurd.

Gilgamesh’s smile cuts across his face like a knife. A sparking, hissing spear that looks like it was carved from light floats out of the gold-tinged air around him.

Something between a scream and a growl rips out of Lancer’s mouth when she sees it. Sigurd scowls and tries to stand, but is stuck in Lancer’s arms due to the chains.

“Rejoice, fools,” Gilgamesh says. “You are fortunate enough to die by the weapon of your greatest god.”

He snaps his fingers, and the spear flies straight at Sigurd. It skewers her chest and impales Lancer behind her.

Lancer gags and coughs. Her dark blood stains Sigurd’s suit.

“Sigurd,” she says, bringing her hand up to stroke Sigurd’s cheek. “I am so sorry. I always...lo—”

She dissipates into a cloud of golden light, just like your Servants did when you unsummoned them. Without Lancer to hold her, Sigurd falls to the ground, the spear still sticking out of her. Her chest heaves with the force of her sobs. 

She wraps a hand around the spear and pulls. It comes free with a squelching sound. Blood pours from the wound as she gets to her feet. The chains wind around her, their spiked tips digging into her shoulder and her thigh. Her canines have become longer and sharper. Patches of her exposed skin gleam in the sunlight, and appear to have taken on a greenish hue.

“Kill me now,” she says, “or I will make you all rue the day you were born.”

Gilgamesh glances at you for confirmation. Nod. 

He raises both hands, and weapons rain down on Sigurd, pulverizing her into a reddish mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to avoid both the police and the plague content the scene starts at "She starts to say something...." and ends at "Yan Qing pushes the door..."  
> Also please note that the graphic violence is at the end.


End file.
